Red Like Strawberries
by Bonzai-Bunny
Summary: You didn't know that strawberry-red could be so fascinating. Beyond Birthday centric.


Warning: Disturbing images, blood/gore

Disclaimer: I don't own Another Note

Authoress Note: You know, this becomes more disturbing to me, the more I think about it. xD It's about Beyond Birthday and he is around the age of four. After reading too many of a certain author's fanfics, I made it in the second person. I wrote it at 3:00 last night, so enjoy.

-o0o-

It's dark red, bubbling up from a cut in your hand and you are astonished. It's pretty, like red rubies, rubies of life, and you feel oddly at peace watching it stain your skin and drip softly on the floor.

_(Drip, drip, drip)_

It smells like metal, only damp, more acidic, and strong in contrast to the sweet, syrupy scent of your strawberry jam. It is biting to your nostrils, but this does not bother you, nor does the pain you feel. There is a burning sensation rippling through your flesh and instead of reacting to it like other children would, you feel more curious at it. (If you get cut elsewhere, will the pain be the same?)

You feel tempted to find a larger piece of the broken, strawberry jam glass that lies scattered around your feet and strike it against your milky skin.

_(Drip, drip, drip)_

The whole thing had been an accident, you tipped it over while not paying attention and your childish, grubby hands didn't realize the consequences of trying to pick the strawberry glass up, but the result is gleeful. Such a pretty substance it was and you want to know everything you possibly can about it. The blood feels warm in your hand, streaming between your pudgy fingers and you wonder what it would feel like between your toes, if you were in a puddle of it (like sand or water?).

You want to know if it will hurt more, the more you agitate it.

With a resolve, you bend down and pick up a piece more carefully with your other hand (because it would be a ruined experiment if your _other _hand bled as well) and stab it against your flesh, wincing at the hotter pain it caused. Your skin rips open even further, contributing to the sticky, strawberry-red mess on your clothing and the floor.

(_Drip, drip, drip, drip_)

You therefore conclude that a larger wound equals more blood flow. You aren't done with your experiment yet, though.

If it's red like a strawberry, will it taste like a strawberry?

You bring the mutilated hand to your mouth and take a timid lick (just to sample, not to spoil your appetite). It's metallic and bitter (not like your favorite treat), but has its own alluring quality that makes you take a second taste. Your tongue wraps around a sticky, drying finger and you suck it dry, like you would your strawberry jam.

(_Drip, drip, drip_)

It paints your lips red and you have a brief urge to smear it over the white, white countertops to make a mess of things. You enjoyed chaos and white was such an _ugly_ color.  
It implied purity and perfection and even at such a young age, you know these things do not exist. Besides, you are quickly finding red to be so much prettier and attainable.

You bring your hand to your lips again for _one final taste_, but the door opens and the look on your mother's face is one of pure terror. She screams, which you find hardly necessary, and points towards you as though her accusing finger could convey words. She's clearly shocked speechless.

You know you must make a scary sight, with glass and a red, sticky substance (mostly jam) in a puddle around you. There's blood on your clothing, on your hands, and covering your mouth and she can only wonder what the hell were you trying to do.

(_Drip, drip, drip_)

You stare at her, unperturbed, with fingers hanging from your mouth (covered with that wonderful strawberry-red) and your large, charcoal eyes stare back at her, above her head, at the name and numbers that have become so familiar to you.

Then maternal instinct kicks in and she rushes in to get you away from the glass and pulls your hand out of your mouth.

"Beyond, what are you _doing_?" Her voice is seething, her posture exhausted.

Your lips twist into a disturbing smile, partially because of the child-like innocence it holds ("I was just playing mommy," you want to tell her) and partially because of the blood smeared over your mouth, contradicting and disgusting. You hold your hand up, still dripping on the floor, as though an explanation. Your eyes light up again at the substance that, thankfully, was still bleeding slightly. And as though it was a wonderful present made specifically for her (you were so proud of what you discovered) you say, "Isn't it pretty?"

(_Drip, drip, drip_)

Your mother feels sick, something heavy and foul sinking down her stomach as her face pales with a frightened realization. She has always had doubts about your normalcy, but she often ignored that in favor of your intelligence. Her suspicions this time can't be helped, not with you looking so proudly at your hand (you thought it was _pretty_) and she makes a mental note to find a pediatric psychiatrist first thing in the morning.


End file.
